Kink Meme Collection
by harpychick
Summary: A WIP collection of my contributions to the Kink meme.  Now DA2 inclusive.
1. Difficult Understanding  ZevFCousland

I have been doing a fair bit of writing on the kink meme, which has distracted me from getting much done on my stories here. So I have decided to share the reason why. I will be posting Brothers In Arms as a separate story.

**On another note - I am looking for a beta, or someone to bounce ideas off of. I'm pretty ok in the spelling/grammer stakes.**

**The prompt **- Zevran has a hard time coming to terms with a female warrior, based on Oriana's conversation in Highever.

-Somehow this ended up being smut free. Eh, it happens, I suppose.-

oOo

She moves like lightening, bright and fast, striking with brutal force. Even turning to the flat of her blade, Zevran can feel the bruises blooming, knows he will be aching fiercely in the morning.

Teeth clenched, he grips the hilt of his longsword, following her movement, timing his attack. Speed is his ally, stealth in shadows, sleigh of hand, tricking the eye of his opponent, but she doesn't chase his slick feints, isn't fooled by the serpent quick blows, as she forces his sword into the dirt with the rim of her shield.

The bold gleam of the falling sunlight paints her silverite armor copper and bronze, the golden glow a sharp contrast to the glint of her teeth, the flash of blue fire in her eyes, the flush of red in her cheeks, excitement blushing under her skin.

She parries his attacks easily, her speed in heavy armor stunning, the elegance of her shifts and strikes makes him catch his breath, gasping a little at the splendor of her blade work, a little at the magnificence of her beauty, and a little at the thumping weight behind the slap of steel on his flesh, caught out in a moment of inattentiveness.

She smirks, brows arched, when he doubles over, breathless. She plants her armored boot on his shoulder, and _shoves_, tumbling him to the ground. The elf groans slightly at the thought, and feel, of yet another bruise, this one on his tailbone, that he will sport, come morning.

"Merciful, beautiful Warden, I yield." He struggles to keep his tone light and playful, subservient to his chosen mistress, but he can't quite hide from himself the awe, the resentment, that this _woman_, Gray Warden though she be, can best him. Again. And again. Every sparring session leaves him filthy, sore, and intrigued.

She laughs at the stunned look on his face. "You are not the first to underestimate my prowess, Zevran." A tinge of mocking in her voice, more than a touch of pride. A slight blush of bitter grief. "Many men have fallen to my sword, just as surprised as you are now." She reaches down, offering her hand to his aid. Always, he is startled by her grace in victory, her compassion. And grateful, once more, that she would spare him.

Her hand lingers on his as she appraises him, head cocked to one side, lips curled in a slight smile.

He may be unfamiliar with the reality of a woman warrior, but the look in her eyes now is something he knows all too well, gauging him, measuring him, judging him. "Do you like what you see, Warden?" He pitches his voice just shy of a growl, letting heat flare in the gaze he returns. He doesn't let her see the disdain.

She twitches when he speaks, her own moment of fancy, and flushes as his words and tone sink in. She shakes her head quickly, eyes dropping, flicking back to him, hurrying to drop again. She starts to speak, pauses, starts again. She blushes deeper red, and turns away, the warmth of her calloused fingers finally leaving him.

oOo

When he returns to the fireside, as clean as cloth dampened from his water skin can get him, he finds her staring in to the flames, hypnotized by the flicker and showering sparks. She is cleaning her armor, deftly removing soil and blood, until is shines again. A glance at him, a half smile, and he sits beside her. When she tenses, he sidles further away, until he finds the distance necessary for her to relax again. Mutely, he watches the fire as well, simply sharing the evening with her.

"Can I ask you something?" He can't say why she sounds timid, she who intimidates with ease.

"Hmmm, only if I may stare luridly at you while you do so." He slants a look from the corner of his eye, only to see her staring at her hands, fingers twisting in what looks to be a most painful fashion.

A deep breath. "You…Um. You said you grew up in a whore house…" She trails off, still refusing to look at him.

He smirks a little, to himself, to see his proud, confident Warden so tongue-tied. "So I did."

"I-Ugh. Never mind." She shudders, turning back to polishing her pristine armor. "I don't even know what I'm trying to ask, let alone how to ask it."

He almost can't keep the sneer to himself. "Perhaps you are curious about what tricks I may have learned, to play at being a bed warmer?" A struggle, to keep flirting, when his insides have frozen. But he is a Crow, and well trained.

"What? No! Maker's breath, no!" She jerks as if slapped, though perhaps a blow would have rocked her less. "Was it terrible, living there?" Finally she turns fully toward him, meeting his eyes. "I just…I guess I want to know more about _you_. How you grew up, what you thought of becoming a Crow, what you think about it now. That sort of thing." She huffs, and turns back toward the fire.

"I see." The chill inside thaws slightly at her words, further at the sad, torn look on her face.

"I'm not very good at people. I'm good at swords. I'm good at fighting, at killing." She chuckles darkly. "Which is probably a good thing, since I don't think the darkspawn would think much of me if I tried to talk them to death." She sighs, scrubbing her face with her hands. Stands, gathering her gear.

When she places her hand on his shoulder in farewell, he speaks. "It was not so bad, the whore house. I was raised _by _whores, not _as _one." He touches just her fingers as she goes to pull away, holding her to him by will alone. "It can always be worse. Goodnight, fair Warden."

A soft murmur. "Sleep well, Zev."

He watches as she crawls into her tent, pulling the flap closed. Tomorrow is a new day, and a new chance to best her in combat. For tonight, he will relish the softer side she has shown him. Tomorrow, perhaps he can find a way to use it to put a bruise on _her_ backside for a change.


	2. Anything AlistairMorrigan

**The prompt **- I decided I should probably not use the original prompts, outside of the kmeme. Apologies if anyone was made uncomfortable in the time they were up.

oOo

He was never _really_ meant to be King, he'd known even then. He'd spared Anora for a reason, even if he didn't know what that reason was, beyond a vague sense of doom, the heavy feeling that he wasn't really _meant_ to survive, wasn't _meant_ to be so happy. The survival of Ferelden was worth more than his pride, so he locked her in a tower, betrayal or no, to be held in reserve for the day he fell.

Except now he _is_ the King, even if he is badly neglecting his duty to crown and country, following a barely warm trail through a cold, dark mountain range, while she reigns in his name. His guide is rumor, and nightmare flashes of intuition, tugging at his mind and hand, sourced from the ring he had taken from Elissa's broken, bloody finger.

He still sees her soft grey eyes, flooded with pain and sorrow as she told him to remain at the gates. His heart had broken in that moment, knowing what it meant. A searing flicker of hope, that it could be Riordan, as she whispered _I'll be back before you know it. _But her eyes told him the truth her lips wouldn't. He will never stopped hating himself for obeying.

Sidelong flashes of blood spattered silverite catch in the corner of his eye as he crouches, damp and miserable, trying to warm his hands over a feeble fire. Glimpses of Elissa's chestnut hair, intermingled with visions of _her_, his quarry, raven haired and golden eyed, pale as the ice she calls her heart. If he closes his eyes and doesn't concentrate, he can see them both, sharing a smile over the roaring camp fire, careless touches laden with affection, until the Witch turns her cold gaze on him, threat clear. He used to shiver when she did that. Now he only wishes he had understood what she was telling him the last time she looked at him, hot and cold, violence crackling on her skin, grief dripping from every line of her body.

And then she left, and Elissa never wanted to talk about it. It was never the right time. There was always something that needed immediate tending, troops to cajole, gear to polish and pack, strategy to discuss. Always something to distract him from his future Queen's distant eyes and furtive ring twisting, whenever he asked about the girl from the Wilds. Sometimes she would bite her lip playfully, glancing coyly at him from beneath her lashes, and he would forget the world existed, just for a little while.

Elissa used to sit beside the fire, much like he was now, only warmer, a bigger fire, for more people. More than one. She would stare into the flames, he would watch the shadows dance on her cheeks, as she twisted the damned ring round and round, as if it was the puzzle key to their upcoming dilemma. As if she thought about it, but they couldn't talk about it. He hadn't wanted her to think about it, hadn't wanted her to consider options. As far as he was concerned, there were no options. It was his to do, if Riordan fell. Senior Warden, King, and lover of an amazing woman that Ferelden needed. They didn't need him. What was there to talk about?

There weren't many words exchanged between them, really, between Redcliffe and Denerim, with all the things they wouldn't talk about. But that was OK, they didn't need words, when hands and lips and bodies spoke so eloquently.

He wraps his cloak tightly around himself, shivering, and crawls into his bedroll. The heat of his dreams will see him through the night, as it has so many nights before. And if not, he doesn't really care. To die in dreams of her, he, a failed Warden, a useless King, will die as happy as he can be, left with nothing but memories.

oOo

When he wakes, it is into a cocoon of warmth he has not felt in weeks, his tiny fire a blaze, well stoked, his blanket having sprouted fur. And breath. And teeth. The lolling tongue of the wolf bedded down beside him seems to laugh at him, as he regards those teeth with apprehension.

"Why are you here?" Even knowing what she really is, he scratches between the wolf's ears, pets the soft pelt of the creature sharing his bed. She stretches under stroking hands, shimmers, shades of wolf becoming woman. When he feels fur give way to skin, he jerks his hands away, rolling onto his back with a half-amused huff.

"'Twas quite foolish to sleep so exposed to the elements, Alistair." Propped up on her elbows, she looks at him, solemn golden eyes, cold as ever. "You would have died."

"As if you care. Go back to being a dog. I like you better that way."

"I am loathe to allow yet another thing Elissa loved to pass from this world."

The sound of her name, spoken once more in the Witch's sultry voice, causes him to flinch back, gritting his teeth against the wave of anguish sweeping through him. Her own harsh grief does nothing to soften her eyes.

"It should have been me." A wretched murmur, as he turns his face from her.

"Indeed. Why was it not?"

His shame splashes across his features, flushing in his cheeks and down his neck. Morrigan nods her understanding, her fingers press against his heated skin. "She bade you remain, did she? Bade you stay behind, remain safe. Be King?" A cold fingertip trails a shiny smooth scar cutting across his jaw. He nods under her touch. "I thought she might. We spoke, she and I, of what you might do, faced with the Archdemon."

"You discussed me? Really?" He looks askance at her, the woman he put such effort into hating, until he could no longer hate someone Elissa loved so much.

She laughs, a deep, throaty sound that reverberates through his body. He tries to squirm away from her, only manages to writhe more fully against her bare skin.

"Where were you, then, when it came to the battle?" Discomfort turns to glare, as he remembers _why_ he is so angry with the Witch. "Did you discuss that too?"

From the corner of her eyes, she returns his glare, unwilling to face him. "Of course we did. She refused, or you did, and I could not stay and watch her die. Not when there was a way out, and she too stupidly stubborn to take it!"

"What?" He grabs her jaw, turning her head until golden eyes meet his, realization dawning.

"She never spoke to you…"

"Not about a way out. That night, the night you left…" _'I love you so much, Alistair. Always remember that.' Elissa's fingertips slid gently over the ragged cut on his jaw, left there from the Landsmeet. He refused to have it healed, a reminder of the necessary caution of Kingship. 'We'll find a way to give you an heir, find a way to heal Ferelden. When this is over.'_

"She didn't say anything about a way out." He closes his eyes, and the chin in his hand is Elissa's, the eyes staring so intently at him are grey, not gold, and he pulls her tightly against him, groaning.

"I offered a way out, for you both, that no Gray Warden need die. She went, and came back, and she was crying, but she. Said. No." Each word a gasp, as though she is choking back tears. "I hated you so much. I could think of no reason she would refuse, but that you had done so, and I despised you, for letting such a petty dislike cost me my only friend."

His face is open, if his eyes are closed, and she can see the memories dripping onto his skin. "I thought that you refused the ritual for your dislike of me, for your fear of me, not that she never _told _you of my offer." With a fingertip, she catches his sorrow, tastes the bitterness of his tears. With a sigh, she pulls herself from his arms, carefully wrapping the blanket around herself. Sitting up, she looks at the fire, cheerfully devouring the wood she had spelled dry.

His voice is hoarse, clotted with emotion, anger, grief, "Why didn't you ask me? I would have died for her, what is participating in some ritual compared to that?"

"Would you have lay with me so willingly, who loved her so wholeheartedly?" A glance at him as he lay, eyes open now, showing her his torment. "'Twas what the ritual entailed, Alistair. To lay with me, to create a child to absorb the Archdemon's soul."

The crack of his hand across her cheek is painful, the sudden fury of his movement as he coils up, no longer on his back but on his knees before her. Did she close her eyes and miss his moving, or did she simply welcome his hate? The familiarity of his animosity is comforting, better by far than his tears.

"How could you think that something so…simple, would make me willing to lose her?" A growl, deep in his chest, and another strike, flushing red on her pale skin. "A choice, to fuck you, or let her die? Not even a choice."

She had failed Elissa, and run. Even Alistair's shame could not match her own, and the punishment he doles out in the flat of his hand is welcome, so too the hard grip on her arms as he grabs her, the ragged pain as her back hits the ground. His breath comes harshly as he rips away the cover of the blanket, his hand at her throat, holding her down, stifling her breathing. When his other hand fumbles for the ties of his breeches, she understands his intention. Eyes wide, knowing it will hurt, she welcomes him, hips raising to meet him.

He spreads her knees with his body, parts her thighs with his hips, but pauses, pressed against her. Bitterness refracts between them, the sudden knowing that this, just this, could have saved Elissa, but they were too late. "I would have fucked you that night, had I known." The waiting is excruciating, she is nowhere near ready for him, and he knows it. Still he pushes, slowly stretching her, the ache unbearable. "I would have fucked you every night between Redcliffe and Denerim, if that was what it took, to make sure you were pregnant." He clenches his teeth, fighting to move slowly. "I would have done _anything_ to save her. Paid any price."

_She_ loved him, so Morrigan clings to him, knowing it for a fool's dream, to touch her once more through him. The feel of his hard flesh moving over her, inside her, leads the Witch through memory, she smells Elissa, when she carried his scent in the mornings, echoes of the Warden's voice in her own cries, as Alistair drives deeply, fully into her sheath.

He finds her mouth with his, and the kiss is tender, a counterpoint to the bruising clench of his hands, the hard thrust of his body, the crushing sweep of emotion that rages through them both. She cries out, despair and desire, meeting each plunge of his hips with an uprising of hers, until the mingled pain and pleasure of their joining overwhelms, and she stiffens, quivering, held on the edge.

His final drive, hard and deep, bruising, and he roars out Elissa's name, not hers, and she groans, clenching hard around him, the name on her lips, so quiet she can scarcely hear it, is Elissa's as well.

He sobs, deep and broken, crying out a hurt too big to be borne. She cannot find the tears as he has, though her pain is just as great, so she gathers him into her arms, enfolding him in her limbs and gentle healing spells as she rocks him, urges him to pour out his grief, to please, for love of the Gods, pour out hers as well. Once, they had shared the love of a wonderful, confident, amazing woman, and now he is all that is left to her.

oOo

Alistair sits rigidly on the throne, tapping his fingers impatiently as the noble before him lays out his request. The man's voice is a drone in the background, the King's thoughts consumed entirely by the upcoming celebrations, the third anniversary of the end of the Blight, and the fall of the Archdemon. The death of the Hero of Ferelden. A flurry of movement in the back of the room, as the door to the audience chamber swiftly opens, just as swiftly closes, as voices swell and hush. A familiar hooded form approaches, and the man stutters to silence.

She pushes back the hood, to gaze up at him with defiant golden eyes, the raven haired Witch, and speaks, husky and pained. "I would speak to you in private, your Majesty."

Alistair watches her, the heat of sorrow undiminished, and nods, gesturing Anora to take his place on the throne. His wife smiles gently, chastely kissing his cheek.

In the hall, Morrigan turns to him, but he takes her hand, leading her further, to his sleeping chambers. Closing the door, he folds her into his arms.

"Why does it still hurt so, Alistair? When will it end?"

"I don't know. I don't think it will."

"I need you to cry for me."

"Anything."


	3. Nothing Sacred MorriganCullen

oOo

She kneels on the floor, leathers crusted with drying, tacky hope. Hands clench at her belly, blood smearing brilliant against pale skin. She can't remember the last time she cried, but she weeps now, the pain unraveling her body nothing to the agony clawing at her soul. Screams echo across the snow laced valley, deep in the heart of the Frostbacks as she arches, desperately forcing the little practiced healing spells to ripple under her skin, trying to stop what has already happened. For the first time, she wishes she had learned more from Wynne, that she knew more powerful spells to save her God-child.

_Wynne_…darkness washes over her.

She is delirious, she has to be. A gentle touch brushes tangled, sweat coiled strands of hair from her face, the soft murmur of voices floats around her, incomprehensible. A whisper, promises of safety, _too late_, promises of warmth and protection. Strong arms lift her, cradle her close.

"Be gentle with her, boy. She has suffered a great deal, and we do not want to add to it." The elderly Circle mage pushes a pulse of magic into the Witch, stemming the tide of pain that crashes over her. "She will need more than I can do here. We must get her to the nearest town, at least."

Morrigan's limp body is shifted slightly, her head resting on a hard plane, she can hear the thud of a heart, feel it beat against her cheek, the rumbled inhale before he speaks, the deep resonance once he does. "As you say, Senior Enchanter." She thinks she should recognize the voice, but she is too tired to fight for it, too drained to do anything but lay in his heat, listening to the sounds of his life. "She is the one we've been looking for, isn't she?"

"Indeed she is, Cullen. Kallian was not remiss in thinking she might be in danger, as it turns out. She will be pleased that we have found her."

The responding grunt rocks her. "Will we be taking her back to the Palace, or to the Tower?" His voice is thick with urgency, his grip on her tightening possessively. "She is an apostate, Wynne. She belongs to the Tower."

The Mage's response is sharp, "She belongs to the Warden Commander, boy." Her tone softened by her hand resting on his shoulder. "She is my apprentice, as much as any, and without her, the Blight would have consumed us all."

She is being carried by a Templar. The same Templar that had begged Kallian to destroy the Mages in the Tower, had cursed her for a fool for allowing them to live. She finds she doesn't care. Exhaustion drags her once more into the nothingness.

oOo

When she wakes, it is in a strange bed, in a strange room. Clad only in her smalls, she is tucked tightly beneath a blanket, and the Templar is still there, watching her from a chair across the room. She turns her head, refusing to meet his burning stare. "Why are you here?"

Silence answers her, heavy and bleak. There is nothing of comfort in his presence, a fission of violence and turmoil instead. She is no stranger to animosity, especially not from Templars. Alistair had despised her, yet he had succumbed to her, unwilling perhaps, but in the end, it had been her body to make him gasp, her eyes that he met as he fell apart, her name falling from his lips like a prayer.

She flinches from the thought of the King, a pang in her abdomen reminds her of what she is missing. She stretches, arcing her body to try to drive the tension out, to untwist her muscles, ease the ache. Her eyes flick over, to see him still staring, still watching. There is a hunger in him, for her blood, or something more, she isn't sure. She doesn't care.

A slow burn of rage in the pit of her stomach. She has given up everything, and lost everything, and there is no one to blame. But there is a Templar, and she knows exactly what Templars are good for. The empty howl inside freezes her for a moment, her yellow eyes locked on the Chantry soldier. When she peels back the blankets, he watches, when she kneels on the bed, he tenses, a hunter's instinct as he tastes her magic, gauging it against his own.

"Do not try to tempt me, apostate."

"Who speaks of temptation, Templar? Surely not I, thus it must be you who are tempted, and seek to lay the blame at my feet?" She stretches her arms above her head, bare breasts lifted on display for him. "I do not offer you anything, nor do I seek to bargain with you." She smiles sweetly at him as she continues to stretch. "You are more than welcome to leave, should the sight of me offend you."

He snorts, blushing faintly, but his voice is venom. "As bad as a Mage is, you are worse. Apostate, you have nothing I need."

She pitches her laugh low, warm and inviting. "No? Then perhaps you watch so avidly something that you want, more than you need? Or do you lie to me? And to yourself?" She is cold inside, shivering against the inside of her flesh even as her skin heats.

Tendrils of something akin to loss wind through her limbs, and she gathers it close, wrapping her pain about her like a second skin. She meets Cullen's eyes defiantly, hoping he is too lost in his own hurts to see hers. She would pray, but she has killed her God. "Do you lie?"

His tension translates to motion, his strong hand catching up both wrists above her head, the other grips her chin, forcing her to look at him. "You think to toy with me? You think to torment me with the sight of your body, stretched bare before me?" He laughs, bitter and pained. "You cannot tempt me with anything I have not already defeated."

His fingers tighten on her chin as he bends down to her, almost brushing her lips with his. She can taste the lyrium on his breath, the icy metallic tang jolts through her. "You cannot offer me anything that I have not already succumbed to." Something in her clenches at the threat in his words, his voice. His anger makes him unpredictable, uncontrollable. Her panties dampen at the thought, and she arches toward him slightly, subtlety.

"I've no care if you are tempted, Templar, though 'tis easy enough to see that you are."

He drops her wrists, snaking his blunt fingers instead into her hair, pulling her head back until she hisses. He takes her mouth in a bruising kiss, and she is wet, writhing and needing in his grasp. "I am beyond defiled, in the eyes of the Maker," he rumbles between biting kisses, "He has forsaken me, and it matters not what sins I commit. There is no salvation left for me."

She gasps into him, "Then let me be your sin, Templar. Let me be your damnation, and in the end, I will grant you absolution." She breaths him in, swallowing his anguish, burying her own in the feel of his lips, his teeth.

He breaks away, stares down at her, her lips swollen, her silky black tresses clenched in his fist, her yellow eyes luminous and defiant, filled with hatred and desire. She smells faintly of medicine, and strongly of forest, of snowcapped peaks and wild waterways. She offers him nothing, and everything. In the curves and dips of her body, the shadow and the bright, he finds life, and death.

He licks his lips slowly, still tasting her, mingled with the lyrium he only notices when he bothers to try. Her slender fingers light on his arm, the muscle quivering under her touch, a struggle to restrain himself. So pale she glows in the weak winter sun, the dust motes shimmer around her, settling like sparks on his skin, on hers. She is a Witch of the Wilds, the thought snakes through his mind, a Goddess of death.

"Maker-" Her fingertip touches his mouth, stopping his words.

"There is no place for your Maker here, Templar." Her sly smile speaks of sin, of flesh and lust, a divineness that has nothing to do with faith or devotion, but only with the curve of her hips, the long line of her legs, the weight of her breast in his hand.

He has followed Wynne for months, searching the mountain villages, the back wood huts, the hidden settlements, for traces and rumors of a raven haired Witch of the Wilds. Wynne searching at the behest of the King and the Warden Commander. Cullen following at Greagior's, protecting the aging Healer on her quest.

He was happy enough to leave the Tower, the empty shell of a home that it has become. Of course, if he were to choose to tell himself the truth, it had become a prison for him even before the Blood Mages rebelled, tearing the world apart. Ever since the effervescent little mage, with her bouncy ponytail and her bouncy walk, had undergone her Harrowing, Cullen has been fighting a desperate battle to regain a desire to live, to find a reason for it all. Her shy smile haunts him, as does the spray of her blood across the polished silver of his breastplate as his sword pierced her heart, the demon's snarl raging on her face.

"I killed the woman I love." He pulls back on her hair, until her lithe body, scored with white scars from battle, with pink scars barely healed from her own hands, is bent backward on his forearm, knees raising from the mattress, unresisting.

She laughs, her breasts shaking under his gaze. "And I killed my deity. Who sins the greater then?" Her wriggle against him is a temptation, the strain on her body making her voice hoarse.

"You offer me redemption? Salvation?" He traces the pink scars left by her nails across her abdomen, his tongue trailing the ridges of her marred flesh. "And what, pray tell, will you take, in all this giving that you claim you'll do?"

She groans under the ministrations of his mouth. "I will take nothing but that which you give. I want only to remember that I am flesh and blood, not yet a denizen of the Fade." At last her voice betrays her, tinged with sorrow, eyes clenched tightly shut, denying tears. "Remind me, Templar, that there is more to this world than pain, and that pain is part of everything."

Her weight in his arms, the slow undulations of her body against him, the blazingly hot flashes of her despair battering against his, pull him into her. He drags her backward by her hair until her shoulders are flat on the bed, knees still bent beneath her. The splay of her thighs shows him her dampened curls, and he releases his grip on her hair to stroke the silky length of her. A hint, here and there, of familiar, he has failed the Maker before, after all. He lays the blame for his fall from grace firmly at the feet of love, but he lays the blame for the loss of his love at the feet of the Maker, so maybe they are even.

He scrapes his cheek against her belly, stubble rubbing her skin red. The raw caress of her skin as he slides up her body, pressing her down with his own. He feels her magic swell, pulse, explode, but barely registers the sting of flame as his clothing falls to ash. "Clever." he murmurs against her lips, just before he devours her.

He impales her, harsh and frenzied, she is too tight, but urges him on, eyes triumphant, still raging. He makes no move to stop her when she bucks up, kicking her legs free, wrapping them around his hips. He makes no move to stop her when her lightening spell flickers over his skin, painful tingles fluttering through both their bodies, spasms that join them closer. She rolls them, and he helps her, until she is in control once more, and he finds no desire to take that from her.

His hands grip her pale hips hard, bruising. His mouth on her breast is softer, nipping, then licking to soothe the sting. Her nails score his shoulders, blood welling in the furrows as he absorbs her fury. The rise and fall of her body over his scours him, his fractured soul coalescing in the depths of her wet flesh.

With her head thrown back just so, the line of her jaw, the part of her lips, he can see Solona, the girl-Mage he had been forced to kill. Until the light slants across her golden yellow eyes, and she is once more the Witch Goddess, using his body, his pain, as a scourge against herself.

"Why?" He thrusts up into her, the pain rippling across her face makes him flinch, but she demands it.

"Because I failed. Because my child is -dead-. Templar, I killed a God, my God. Because I wasn't strong enough." Tears spill, and he kisses them away, even as he pulls her even harder down on his shaft, punishing her already battered womb. The juxtaposition of cruelty and affection thrills him, and he bites into her lip, tasting blood as his hands caress her hips, stroking the bruises. The liquid quiver of her sheath around him, and her panting cries, tells him that it thrills her too. She swivels her hips, beckoning his body to follow her, the slow twine of her magic through his senses drawing him to the brink, dropping him over.

"Have you found something new to worship, Templar?" Her eyes are sad, windows to her soul.

He cups her face, his smile quiet, serene at last. "You promised me absolution, Witch."

"So I did." She drains him slowly, her lips barely touching his, naked against him, holding him tightly as his heartbeat slows, stuttering, to silence.

oOo

"What have you done to him?" The old Mage runs her hands along the Templar's body, her spells useless to wake him.

"He made a deal with a demon, Wynne." She shrugs. "He has shown me salvation. In return, I have given him the freedom that he sought."


	4. What If  Morrigan  Alistair

oOo

"Ah ha! Found you." Alistair's growl is unexpected, jerking her from the book she is trying to read. Trying and failing, her focus so scattered by the odd trembles of her body, the flushes of heat spinning through her from head to toe. Swollen toe. Swollen ankle, swollen belly. Her hand rests atop the curve of a distended stomach, tapping back when Urthemiel kicks. She glares darkly at the man responsible for her discomfort, and her startlement.

"Yes, because I was hidden so well." Snarling, she throws the book at him, watches it bounce off his shoulder. His eyes are heavy and hot, his irritation fades as his gaze sweeps over her. He lingers on her belly, her hands absently soothing as the baby fidgets. "Aren't you supposed to be playing politics, insufferable fool?" She reaches out for another book, throws this one at him too. It hits his chest, not as hard as she would like.

He pouts anyway. "Stop throwing things, I bruise easy."

She sneers at him. "What are you even doing here? I am certain the throne misses your backside, the nobles your invaluable contribution."

"Bah. The blind asses want to dispute the necessity of paying taxes to support Amaranthine." The growl returns. "I called a break, before I was tempted to call for someone's head." Straightening his absurd court tunic, he rolls his shoulders, steps into reach of her, circles around her, runs the palm of his hand down her bare arm. Her own dress is simple, ample room for her expanding stomach, clinging tightly to her swollen breasts. Burgundy silk reminiscent of her battle robes, with a significant nod to court fashions.

The library in her chamber is a fine source of ammunition, but her urge to throw things at the King wanes when his other hand comes around to cradle her belly. The child squirms under his touch, and his face lights up. Her smile is wry, a mix of soft and disdainful. He kisses the back of her neck, his breath warm, smelling faintly of wine, faintly of apple, completely of Alistair. His fingers graze her skin, tiny pings of lightening rise from his touch, soothed down as he exerts a small force of will.

"Careful, don't want to go back with burns again. Someone might give a thought to something other than their own coffers." His hands drift back to her belly. "How is our demon spawn today?"

"Active." Her words prove true immediately, the child kicking against his touch again. She leans her head back into the crook of his shoulder, eyes closing, reveling in the feel of him against her, drawing in his warmth. His mouth is moving across her shoulder, his hands drift up to caress her breasts. A long exhale is her only response.

"Mmhmm. And how is my Witch today?" He flicks his tongue against her throat, pulls her closer as she tilts her chin to grant him more skin. Her rumbling purr spurs him to lavish greater attention, nibbling and sucking gently. Her arms twine up behind her, pull him closer until she catches his mouth with her own. A nip against his bottom lip, and she pulls away, stands, and gestures him to sit in her place.

"Impatient." Trouser laces are tugged free, her hand slides in to grasp him. He grows and thickens in her grip, his eyes intently on her face, a slow smolder starting. Hips wriggle until her dress is around her thighs, she guides his fingers to slide against her, caressing and curling. Heat begins to spread, a flush in her cheeks, down her thighs as he presses his palm against her, slips two fingers slowly into her. Her hips rock, pushing harder onto his hand. A soft moan parts her lips, quickly giving way to tiny pants and whimpers. "I've been waiting for you all day, my King."

His eyes flame at her words. His hand pulls away, grasps her thighs, pulls her astride him. She leans back a little to accommodate her belly, pale taut skin pressed against his muscular stomach, and eases onto him, a sharp gasp as he thrusts his hips up, burying himself in her. His right hand flat against the bulge their god child, the left wrapped around her back, he meets her gaze and doesn't look away, his need palpable as he moves in her, tender and touching.

She is frightened by the intensity of her responding need, but it is no new fear. She has grown soft for him, her fool of a King, her Templar. Soft enough to stay, tied to him by blood and lust, a craving for a family that was foreign to her, until he convinced her it was possible.

Sparks trill once more across her skin, her focus lost in the rhythmic swivel of his body beneath her. He shifts his torso, stretching up to kiss her, deeply, hot and desperate. She is falling into him, lips burning, body burning, heart burning. Power wells in her limbs, coiling tightly as she spirals up, driven by the thrust of his body into hers.

_Mine. _

Something primal rips through her, driving her to possess, and he responds to the change, movements more powerful, grip tighter. He is her mate, father of her unborn child, lover, owner, master, slave. A snarl tears from her, and his teeth mark her. "Again." Voice ragged, breath ragged, commanding him to taste her, devour her, destroy her. He bites into her shoulder, bruising, tearing, owning.

He is survival. He is instinct and passion, need and divinity. Their magics twine together as she bleeds into him, flesh and need merged. Her body spasms as an orgasm crashes over her, his name spilling from her lips like a prayer, "Ungh. Fuck! Alistair, now!" A call to battle.

He roars in response, muffling the sound against her breast, answering her call.

They are panting, clinging to each other, slick with sweat, shuddering in reaction. She is shaking in his arms, reeling still.

Tenderly, regaining strength, he lifts her, lays her on the bed, crawls up beside her. His hands resume their stroking, not wanting to leave her skin yet, as he kisses her belly.

"Maker, but you're more beautiful now than when I met you." Whispered worship, skin on skin as they bask in each other for moment.

"Huh. Well, at least you didn't manage to burn me…just my clothes." His grin is back, prodding her.

"'Tis a wonder, then, that you've any clothes left at all, my love." She shoves his shoulder, then draws his face up, kissing him softly. He is adorable, lighting up as he does when she calls him that. Perhaps she could bear to do it more often. "Run along back to your nobles, Alistair." Her eyes roll at his scowl.


	5. A Reason To Run  Morrigan  Alistair

oOo

"Why did you leave?"

"Because I had to." A heavy sigh. "Think you Ferelden would look kindly on another bastard child who may be a threat to Anora's throne?"

"I renounced my claim, and that of all my descendents."

"She will not let you walk away cleanly. She will seek you, and have you put down."

"Aedan won't let her do that."

"Alistair, the safely of this child is more important than you or I."

"You said you loved me."

"And I do…did." How is it that he makes her sigh so often. "Do."

"Can I meet him?"

"Her."

"Oh. Can I meet her?"

"No."

"Morrigan-"

"What am I to tell her, Alistair? Here, darling, meet your father, who is leaving now, who you will never see again, and who will probably be dead by order of the throne by the time you grow enough to find him on your own? If I'm to keep her from the politics of it all, that is probably not the wisest way to go about things."

"How about, here, darling- really, you call her darling? Huh. Here, darling, meet your father, who would really like the chance to know you and love you as much as he loves your mother."

"But now he has to go away, so sorry to make you think there was a chance at a father figure."

"Or he could stay. You know, stay and help raise you, love you, love your mother, be a family."

"But then of course, once your powers develop, he will run screaming to the nearest Chantry to have you taken to the Tower, or just be put down by Templar swords. Doesn't that sound marvelous?"

"Only if he happened to be stupid enough to _not_ realize you were going to be something special, and he happens to think he's well and truly gotten over being _only partly _indoctrinated as a Templar, and your mother is just making excuses, because she isn't comfortable with the fact that she fell in love with him, when she was only supposed to seduce him to have you."

"Thinks that, does he?"

"Yep."

"Maybe your mother only ever told the boneheaded Templar that she loved him in order to get him to lay with her for the ritual without a fight, and now she has had enough of the hollow headed, cheese mongering, overprotective simpleton fool, and wants him to go away and leave us in peace."

"Nope, too late. She already said she loves him. He's too used to her insults to take her seriously when she says that."

"Damn."

"Tripped yourself up there, didn't you?"

"I suppose I did at that."

"I'm not asking you to come back."

"What are you asking then?"

"To stay."

"The Wardens need you."

"No, they don't. Aedan does a fine job as Commander. Anora is a good Queen."

"Aedan needs you."

"Hardly. Aedan has never needed me. You're just looking for excuses. I can tell, cause that one was kind of desperate."

"So it was."

"I think you have the idea stuck in your head that because you were raised this way, your daughter must be as well."

"That…could be so."

"It's not as if I'd be useless, you know. I can teach her to resist Templar abilities."

"As can I."

"You can only teach her theory. I can give her practical knowledge."

"This is true."

"I can't bear the thought of having a child, and not being part of her life. You know I never had a real family, and I can't do that to her."

"If I say yes, will you shut up?"

"Probably not."

"Well, I may just have to shut you up the old fashioned way then."

Silence, as her mouth presses against his, words he may have spoken lost in the movement of her lips, her tongue. Their kiss is urgent, an overspill of restrained emotion, repressed longings, long months of responsibility and duty seen to, until finally he could seek her out. The years on the road hunting her.

His touch is fervent against her skin, slipping into her cloak to grasp her hips. Just as warm as she remembers. An edge of desperation in his hold, pulling her closer, tighter, fingers flexing restlessly.

She has never been patient, not since the first time, and he has long since learned to read her signs. A hard nip into his bottom lip, and she licks the blood welling there. Within seconds, she is pinned to the wall, her hands captured in one of his above her head, his eyes burning darkly. Years have passed since he clung to the ideal of romance, and they quickly sink into an animalistic haze, driven by instinct, a divinity all its own. Her snarl goads him onward, touch hard and heavy, mouth hot and sharp. Her struggle in his iron hold is useless, and they both know it. Still she fights, arching herself away from the wall, pushing herself against him.

He has lost nothing of his strength in their time apart. Battle has stripped anything soft from him, there is no time for gentle in a war on darkspawn, no room for it. Theirs has never been an easy love, romantic and sweet. A bond forged in war and blood, frantic battle and miserable nights, innocents damaged and left to die, or outright slaughtered, because it was too hard to tell the difference between friend and foe in an instant, and no one else could be trusted.

In desperate fear, he'd turned to her, silencing her barbs with a gentle kiss, awkward and sweet and his first, and she had been surprised that it was not Liliana he wanted, with her Chantry past and her slick seductions. He had flushed and stammered, and made her feel special in his regard, despite herself. She allowed him gentle and soft once. The first time. His first time, her hands guiding him, quiet murmurs leading him through fumbling hesitations. Her first time, as he learned upon thrusting into her, which is when they both learned that the smell, the taste, the feel of blood between them was not such a bad thing after all.

His smile is wicked, blood from his lip a trickling ribbon down his chin, dripping between her breasts as he makes short work of her clothing, until she is clad only in her cloak, wrists still pinned to the wall above, and then he is _in_ her, and _Gods, it hurts_, because she isn't ready, arcing into him because that is exactly how she likes it, and he knows it. His blood smears on her pale skin, he pushes into her, her knee hitched over his hip, driving her up onto pointed toes, holding her open for him as she tilts her hips to take him. His mouth finds hers again, and the taste pushes her into a frenzy. He releases her wrists to pull her other leg around him, hands gripping under her, holding her weight as he drives into her. Her shoulders press back to the wall, arms out to clench her nails into his shoulders, wounding again, bleeding.

Every thrust is a claim, on her body, on her heart, on her soul. Each sharp breath is an affirmation of his love, his addiction. Each rumbled growl is a sound of possession, each mark a display of dominance, and she trembles, tight and clenching, as his teeth at her throat drop her over the edge, shattering her, reminding her that she belongs to him, as much as he to her.

Still he manages tender, fingers tucking her now untidy midnight hair behind her ear.

"So."

"So?"

"Can I meet her?"

"Alistair…"

"Face it, Morrigan. I won't stop coming. I won't stop chasing. I will keep catching you, until you say yes."

"It will only hurt you to meet her, when we leave again."

"Then don't. Or take me with you."

Her fingers on his lip, a glancing touch as a healing glow sinks into him, erasing the wounds inflicted.

"Fine."

"Wow. That easy, huh?"

"Easy?"

"Well, this is the first time I've gotten to the part were I beg you to keep me around. I thought we'd go around another time or two."

"Perhaps five years is long enough."

"It has been a long road."

"Apparently the eleventh time is the charm."

"You do realize, every time I found you, you gave me even more reason to keep chasing?"

"This just now occurred to you?"

"Um…maybe?"

"I hope that is more upbringing than breeding."

"Ha ha."

"Come, Alistair. Meet your daughter."

His smile is blinding, his palm cups her face.

"After you put your clothing to rights."

"I think that's why you agreed to let me stay. Cause you can't resist my masculine charms."

"That did not hurt your chances, certainly."

"I love you, Morrigan."

"I know, Alistair. And I you, may the Gods forgive me."


	6. Shades of You Morrigan & Alistair

Still the kink meme eats my soul...

* * *

He is gentle, letting love guide worship, soft touches, caressing skin as if she is so fragile as to break under him. The slow peel of leather and cloth from her shoulders, skimming down her ribs, his lips burn a trail of electric fire in the wake of his hands. He shakes with an emotion she doesn't care to interpret, his eyes dark and heavy with it as he moves in her, the slick thrusts as he shoves his love into her, his intensity demanding that she respond. She wants to cry out that he is nothing but a shadow, a necessity to their goal, but finds that her souls speaks for her, spilling her secrets over him even as her flesh welcomes him home.

oOo

He smiles in his sleep, his arm slung low across her hips, pinning her to the bed. What should be heavy and confining is not, not in the wake of her confessions. That she has loved him, spoken aloud finally, no longer trapped behind her lips, lodging in her throat until she wants to scream at him, tear him down, shred his heart as he shatters hers with disregard.

If only she had known. If only he had. They could have had more than just one night, charged with magic and blood. Perhaps, given how hard she has to work now to separate herself from him, 'tis better they did not.

She moves slowly, so as not to wake him. The swiftness with which his smile changes to a puzzled frown stabs at her, as if his slumber returns to restless darkspawn dreams when she is not there to keep them away.

What harm to remain? What harm to let him wake to her limbs twined with his, his heat tempered by her chill?

_Hope is harm_.

Hope is the gift she cannot give him, with her heart trapped in his, it would be easy to stay, easy to love him. The road she has chosen is the difficult, rocky path, tearing herself from all that she has come to cherish, in order to protect it.

A static moment of indecision, as if the world has taken a deep breath, and holds it as she kneels on the bed at his side. Perhaps he could accompany her? With the Blight finished, and fully aware of the possible consequences of their ritual, would he not say yes, were she to ask?

_He is my weakness._

She huffs, amusement and disdain blended, as her shining Knight, glowing golden in the glimmer of pre-dawn light, gropes blindly in the place she had lain, safe in his hold. With her breath, with his movement, the world exhales into motion, the frozen moment of choice passed. Twisting the ring from her thumb, she slides it onto Alistair's smallest finger, careful not to touch him, careful not to test her resolve, lest she fall back into him.

Exactly where she wants to be.

oOo

She avoids him adeptly for most of the battle to the Archdemon. With no time to wonder what she might say to him, she finds it a mixed blessing. When the dragon falters, he is in the thick of it, and she finds herself chewing on her lip, nails biting into the palms of her hands as jagged ice bolt is followed by searing lightening. A fire storm in the heart of the spawn swarm to keep them from the Wardens' heels, and her pathetic attempts to heal them both, until she kneels, mana depleted, energy gone.

Kallian wields a cumbersome sword, jamming it into the skull of the creature, impaling something vital her daggers have no hope of reaching. The flash of light is solid, knocking everyone from their feet, and Kallian falls, hands gripping at her head as released soul seeks flesh, testing the vessel before it until the draw of the tainted child pulls it in.

Morrigan shudders under the pressure, and the entity sweeps through her, the staggering pain of the incomprehensible power, the vast _I Am_, until it finally settles into her womb, content to wait, absorbing and being absorbed by the Warden's child.

She flings herself off the side of the tower before she can be tempted to stay, even for a moment, even just to say goodbye. If she lingers, she is unsure she will be able to leave.

* * *

He will be no king, his fellow Warden showing that much lingering affection, at least. Once upon a time, early in their journey, he had thought himself in love with her, and she with him. It wasn't just the introduction of the elven assassin that tore them apart. No, Kallian had pointed out to him that as much as she could not stop watching Zevran, he could not keep his eyes from the pale beauty of the reclusive Witch. Each time his gaze inadvertently met hers, he found himself tensing, uncomfortable with the simmer beneath his skin.

The day that Kallian pulled him aside in the darkness of camp, sorrow flickering on her features alongside the reflection of flames, Alistair found himself more relieved than hurt. As she said, they'd had fun, and she would always cherish that she was his first, his teacher, and always his friend. He would think fondly of the elf all his life, until the day they met in Orzammar, destined for the Deep Roads. He would think fondly of her until his last breath, clinging to his promise that she be the first to fall, since they just _didn't know_.

He watched the Witch take wing, fists clenched, head bowed, and he ground out under his breath, "I will _find_ you."

His vow hangs in empty air for weeks, turning to months, until it seems years have gone by, the journey to Weisshaupt to report to the First Warden a lifetime as he frets, marking the ninth month of her absence, noting each anniversary passing. He wonders what she named the child, if he has a son or a daughter. Sometimes, he feels something tugging at his gut, a spike of joy, a swell of despair, a sharp pang of regret, and as he twists her ring on his finger, his promise to himself, to her, to their child, hardens further, and he knows that _soon_, soon he will begin.

As soon as duty frees him, he sets out, barely sparing time for proper provisioning. Kallian grins as she leads him to the Keep's stables, gifting him with a horse, a luxury unimagined over the course of the Blight.

He has lost so much time.

She could be anywhere, in Ferelden or beyond, and all he has to guide him are rumors and dreams, and he is wary of what he trusts. Even borne on horseback, the search drags, finds him once more in her Wilds, to the Circle of Magi, and of course, once more in the depths of the Deep Roads. He doesn't _particularly _want the little band of followers he manages to acquire, but they prove their usefulness, and he has to admit, it was a lonely road until the Dalish girl stumbled into his path. His humor is lost on both her and the Mage, but at least they are company of sorts.

Vague memories of tales Kallian told him, her adventures with the Mother, while he was away giving a falsified report, of the Queen of the Black Marsh, and the landscape around him looks a lot like she'd described. With the tugging against his finger growing steadily stronger, he knows she is near, can feel her agitation and trepidation, the push/pull of desire and fear.

oOo

From a distance, she seems a tiny figure, dwarfed by the ancient mirror, but dragging him with all the pull of a loadstone to iron. Even as he waves his followers off, his body stumbles toward her, and he is unable to stop, unable to find the desire to stop.

The odd glow of lyrium veins highlights the paleness of her skin, blue-white and black, the deep burgundy of her tattered hood lost in the depths of shadow. Only the golden burn of her eyes, carefully watching his progress, memorizing his approach, gave any other color to her form, a burnished grayish green in the strange blue light.

Her smile is laced with fear, with longing, with need. With each step he takes toward her, the light in her eyes brightens, her arms, crossed over her torso, grip tighter, her jaw clenches harder. He is lighter, with each stop forward. Every time he lifts a foot, it comes easier off the ground, moves just a fraction faster than the step before. Until she breaks, makes a tentative move toward him, and gravity has released him, so that he may fly to her, catch her up in his arms, heedless of armor, of weapons, of time and of distance, until he finds her mouth. Only then is he captured again in gravity's well, sinking into her, held fast by the weight of his emotion.

_Finally._

"I thought you might come," a murmur against his lips, words broken by her need to kiss him after each one.

He sheds his gauntlets one by one, until he can weave his fingers into her hair, pulling her closer. "I had to. I promised, even if you weren't there to hear it." His hands are restless, stroking against her skin, reveling of the feel of her, finally, real under his hands. He has dreamed for so long, and now she is _here_, and he can _touch_ her. "I couldn't never see you again."

"'Twas intended to save us pain, Alistair." Her own hands are busy, deftly working the buckles of his armor, tugging it away, as she mutters, "You are not close enough. Why must you always wear so much metal? Is not leather protection enough for you?"

He does not help her, he can't stop touching her, skimming down her arms, kissing the base of her throat. "Did it work?" he breathes against her, as the years finally clot in his throat, sweeping through him, weakening his knees.

She is here. She is his.

A wordless cry, he drops his forehead to her shoulder, pulling her closer, crushing her against himself as his armor falls away, metal defeated by her fingers, mental shields torn apart by her scent.

She groans against him, rippling through him. "I was spared nothing." The throb of her despair, her lonely ache of nights long past, the years spent with the same longing his had held, he hears in her voice, interspersed with hums of joy, as his calluses catch the silk of her, his touch rough against her smoothness.

oOo

He is here before her, the strength of him, slowly brushing aside the ties and folds of her robes, discarding them much quicker than his armor was removed, her bare flesh exposed to the scrape of the course fabric of his undershirt.

He is here. She had known he would follow, felt him chafe beneath the weight of duty that delayed him. Felt his need and hope, fear and determination. Felt his long approach, dragging her steps, moving at half the speed she was capable of.

The span of his palm brushing over her hip pulls her back into the present, and he is _here, _and she has never forgotten how he made her heart sing, and still does, even if it was the most foolish thing she could have felt. The most foolish thing she can feel now, but here she is, arching against him even as she pulls him free of his shirt.

Where her mouth meets his skin, he is sweat and salt, dust under laid with the distinct taste of Templar magics, a slick metal tingle on her tongue.

The taste of him still twists her up, after so long, memory merges with reality, and the flare of heat in her belly is matched by the blaze in her chest, the giddy warmth trailing his every fleeting touch, pooling under his palms where he pauses, scorching her where his lips move.

She still has no hope to offer him.

She pushes back the knowledge of disappointments to come, unable to speak of _more_, of _after_, she is only able to spill her love against his skin, with tongue and teeth, and shaking hands.

"I missed you." Missed the man behind the dreams that stirred her into restless slumber, the grin that caught her unaware, so many times, on a young face, reminding her that her son is _his _son, and when she sees it again on Alistair, there is no bemused smile, only an intense _need _between her thighs that is nothing of motherhood.

His reply is muffled by her breast, barely clear enough to make out "Maker, I've missed you too…" before the edge of his tongue against her nipple makes her gasp, forgetting words in favor of savoring the feel of him.

oOo

He has dreamed of chasing, and never being able to touch, so when her smooth skin is finally _here_ under his hands, he doesn't stop touching. He worships her, the long, toned lines of her body, the slick taste of her arousal, the breathy moans that catch in her throat. Every sound, every move, he watches, he listens, he traces the bunch and pull of muscle beneath skin. When a particular stroke results in a shiver, he repeats it once or twice, then moves to explore another dip, another curve, learning what he never had a chance to learn before.

He can't bear the thought of letting her go again.

So he anchors her, tying her to him with slick wet cords of lust and need, winding her leg over his shoulder as he kneels, lapping at her drenched sex, chaining her with the thick thrust of his tongue into her, as she pants, writhing against his mouth and hands, struggling in his grasp, not for freedom, but for _more_. And he gives it, breathing his love into her, curling his fingers to bite into her thigh, bruises blooming, _do not dare let go! _until she is shaking so hard she can no longer stand, even when he holds her up. He lays her down, skin to stone, and she offers no protest, only a dazed undulation of her hip, to invite him closer.

His world is composed solely of her, her smell, her taste, the only sound he hears are the needy whimpers in his ear, the only thing he feels is her, her breath hot on his neck, her hands on his skin, pulling, begging.

He licks her throat, and she bares it to him. He sets his teeth against her skin, and she croons softly, encouraging. He nips at the soft flesh of her breast, his mouth leaving welts, his hands tight on her hips, grinding against her. His breeches are too tight, and he struggles free of them, using one hand, refusing to fully release his Witch.

He is free, hot and heavy and pressed against her, rubbing into her heat, and she feels like satin, slick and _home_. Her hips tilt under him, she is wet and ready, and he has waited and wanted for so long, when he pushes into her, the Gods weep with relief. He wraps an arm around her, holding himself off her with the other, her legs lift up to lock around his waist, and he drives his hips down, to sheath himself fully in her.

She cries out at the suddenness, cries out at the feel of him moving in her, hard and insistent, fierce and needy. The sting of stone against her back banishes her lingering haze, and she comes fully back to her senses to find herself impaled, nailed to the ground by his body, his panting harsh in her ear. "Alistair," she gasps, and he thrusts harder.

He pulls back to look at her, and his eyes are wild, his lips curled in a snarl. "Mine," he growls, thrusting again, buried in her, drowning in her. "Mine." He rears back onto his heels, bringing her with him, never leaving her, and clutches her lush hips in his hands, his mouth on her, teeth marking her, as she grinds down onto him, rocking back, pushing into him with a fervor to match his. Her hips match his rhythm, and she is full of him, needing him, and Gods, she can't get close enough, will never get enough of him, of this _feeling_ that he gives her. His name is a mantra falling senselessly from her lips as she writhes against him, coming apart at the seams.

oOo

His arms should be a cage, his whole body riddled through with the unique Templar taste, trained and honed during the Blight. She has given up all pretense, burrowing into him until he folds her tightly against himself. She wears a satisfied smirk, still unable to stop touching him, her lips pressing against his chest. She would swallow his heartbeat if she could, carry it with her into the darkness. He would give it.

She traces the divots of muscle and scar, memorizing. There is so much to remember, dragging her fingertips over the solid lines of his abdomen, trailing down his hip, onto the firm, pert globe of his buttock.

An amazing combination of strength and dexterity, she used to watch him in battle, fascinated, her only excuse that she may need to heal him. He is no less beautiful now, filled out to better suit his frame, he has become a truly massive man, the years of hardship peeling back the layers of youthful gawkiness, he is the match of any warrior she has ever met, save only Sten.

"Where is our child?"

His question startles her from reverie, stilling the brush of her fingers against his bare flesh.

"He is safe, out of reach." She speaks into his chest, unwilling to move away.

"I have a son." Pain, joy, pride.

"There are tasks yet to be accomplished, Alistair." Her fingers dig into him, willing him to be stubborn, be obstinate, insist that he not leave her side. "I may not linger over long, much as I may wish."

His grip on her doesn't loosen, there is no defeat in his posture. Her heart trips on hope, warily watching the edge of the chasm.

Rising, finally, from his arms, she struggles into her clothing, handing his breeches and tunic over, watches the ripple of muscle play in the cavern's glow as he dresses. His eyes never leave hers, as he traces the swell of her cheek.

"Take me with you."

Destiny catches its breath, for just a moment, as his words chime through the still air, the shadows of the mirror beckon, calling him into the deep.

Into the unknown. For her. _With_ her.

Into the void of time, she reaches her pale hand to him, twines her fingers through his.

"Then come, my love. We will face the future together."

When the world exhales, the moment of choice once more passed, the empty caves echo with the silence of their passage.


	7. A Walk in the Woods Morrigan & Mahariel

A/N - I fought with this one for an awfully long time, but it decided it was finished...so much for smut.

* * *

He makes it difficult to think, the tattooed Warden with eyes like an incoming storm. Sometimes when he looks at her, she can see the wildfire behind them, a slow burn as he taunts her with a smirk and an almost caress. Thrown into a world she finds nothing familiar in, he smells of home, thick forests and wilderness. His footsteps are light, unheard but to the Wilds trained ears of the Witch.

His kindness is unfamiliar, but has swiftly become a crutch, a polar opposite of her cruel upbringing and caustic views. The ruthless streak in him sets him firmly apart from their Templar companion, even further than the dainty points of his ears, or the narrow, vulpine structure of his face, the lean, whipcord strength of his body.

The Warden is as unfamiliar as the Witch with this so-called civilization, but he watches where she scorns, listens where she scoffs, learns what she has determined to reject. In the evenings, crouched beside her fire, he tells her of the things he has learned, explains to her the baffling actions and words, lessons without teaching, all that her pride can bear. And he knows this, from watching her, and learning her, just as intently as anything in his new life. He notices, and he cares enough to bother.

"Why don't you join us for supper tonight, Morrigan? Leliana is planning on telling a story or two, and Zev has done the cooking." Even his voice sounds like home, the rumble of thunder in the distance, the rustle of leaves in a growing wind. He smiles at her, warm and open. His fingers graze the bared skin of her arm, a trail of heat in the chill night.

"I would rather eat dirt than subject myself to that lot of buffoons, Warden." She turns her face to hide the flush, the tongues of fire that bloom at his lightest touch.

"Suit yourself." His tone is slightly mocking, the barest curve of a smile on his lips as he leans close, breath fanning across her cheek. "You always do." He smells of green, the wild surge of sap in waking trees, fresh shoots of winter dormant plants springing into growth.

* * *

The slight breeze ruffles her pelt, bringing the distant scent of the camp to her nose as she lays panting in the dappled shade of the forest. The heat of the day has begun to wan, enough that she can bear the summer coat of her wolf, so long as she doesn't stay too long in the open. More comfortable by far than her human skin, trapped in clothing and company. Leliana's offer to accompany her to hunt had come complete with pleading pout, until Morrigan simply turned away, morphing into a canine form as she left the clearing, and the Bard, behind.

_Enough time wasted._

Catching the heavy scent of prey, she needs a form better suited to the kill, a powerful leap, a crushing jaw. She comes to a crouch, shivering into a jungle cat, tawny splotches on her black hide, stealthy paws carefully placed.

An errant scent catches at her nose, as familiar as the musk of the deer upwind, the algae green smell of the sluggish stream. She is not the only stalker in the forest, and only the keen sense gifted by her borrowed form gives her the advantage. His footsteps are slow and silent, his movement hidden by the flutter of leaves, the gleam of his armor buckles replaced by mud daubed onto bare skin.

A chuckle rumbles up out of her chest as a cough, and the elven ear twitches, the rest of him freezing in place. His arrow notched, ready to fly, yet he waits on the whim of a cat, to see if this prey has already been claimed by another hunter.

She springs, tail lashing, before he can blink, crashing into the buck with a screaming yowl, snapping delicate bone with a swipe of her heavy paw, tearing into soft flesh with claws extended.

She growls a warning, crouched tense and spattered with blood. The Hunter in him bows to her right, but the Warden in him is desperate, his band is nearly out of food, and this deer would feed them long enough to buy supplies. The huge lantern eyes stare at him, until the cat circles off the carcass. He thinks he might be going crazy when she sniffs in disdain, and swats the body toward him. A flick of her tail, and she is gone into shadow, leaving the elf to stare open mouthed at the space she had been.

Abruptly, awareness dawns, and he chuckles. "Suit yourself, darling." He kneels to offer gratitude and apology, before setting about dressing the carcass.

The task of cleaning and sectioning for travel is almost complete when he hears the deliberate crackle of leaves under foot. The smirk on Morrigan's lips is almost playful as she lightly caresses a broad green leaf, her golden eyes following the motion of the Warden's hands.

"Is there not a predator waiting on its supper, while you so neatly truss another's kill?" A lilt of laughter in her voice, a sliver of darkness. "Has the mighty Dalish Hunter fallen so far he cannot catch his own quarry, and must rely on another?" There is something deeper to her challenge, he knows instinctively. Both children of the forests, where the laws of survival have nothing to do with courtesy, and everything to do with skill, she is asking him to prove himself capable.

"And what shall I chase down?"

Her smirk deepens. "Catch me if you can, Warden." She slides into the forest's heart, wrapping the darkness around herself like a cloak, until he can only see the glow of her eyes, even that light bleeding into shadow as she slips away.

He laughs, low and amused, but he can't deny the pang of anticipation, the swell of excitement in his chest. She makes it easy to forget, the golden eyed Witch, the direction he should be heading, hauling the deer back to camp, rallying the troops for tomorrows efforts, the seemingly endless toil of the road as they wend their way to Orzammar. He is enveloped in her scent, billows of magic and musk, leather and fur, and it draws him into the shadows in her wake, leaving behind responsibility in favor of instinct and upbringing.

He catches her with ease, her trail littered with broken branches, deep foot prints. As he slides fingers through silk, he fists her ebony tresses, slowly, painfully pulling her head back. "Tsk, tsk, Witch." His growl ripples down her body. "You offer me a companion who pays lip service to my leadership, but does not truly trust me." His teeth find her ear, a sharp nip, enough to make her flinch. "I have friends who believe in me, Morrigan. What I desire from you is…more." He rubs his jaw against her throat, strands of her hair twining round the tip of his ear. "What you give, by _allowing_ me to catch you, is so much less than I desire."

He spins her out of his arms, watches her catch herself in a crouch, steady eyes appraising him. His smile is hard and dark, shadows of the forest, and things of deepest night. It widens as she eases into the dappled green around them, vanishing.

This time she challenges him, sneaking feints, trails with abrupt ends, misleading broken stems. He needs none of it, the wisp of her scent draws him in her wake, beaconing. She moves fast, surefooted as any Dalish Hunter maiden. Even the birds do not cry out her presence, neither with song nor with silence. But he_ is_ a Hunter, and she will not escape him.

She is clever, his Witch, and skilled at evasion. But he is Dalish, and the forests have been his home from his first breath. The wind tells him of her passage, the creatures whisper to him of the direction she has gone, and where she goes. A wolf pack, ranging just within his senses, begins to stalk her for him, yipping out their progress. He goes where they tell him she _will _be, to lay in wait.

The red orange flare of the setting sun filters through the boughs overhead, splashing the forest floor with color. Her steps are wary, nearly silent, he would not hear them over his breath, were he breathing. But he is still, silent, crouched and waiting, so that his leap catches her unaware, crashing them both into the brush. She lashes out with claws, hissing and snarling as if she still wore her cat, but his lean strength is the greater, and she cannot dislodge his hold.

The weight of his body pushes her into the soft loam, cradling her backside in an earthy embrace. She goes limp in her surrender, acknowledging he the hunter, she the prey.

In his arms, she is free. Having won, having tracked and captured her, she gives herself over to him, throwing the passion of her flight into the urgency of her kiss. Teeth and tongue, she explores him, tastes the curl of new growth, the dominance he displays over the creatures in the forest. She is one, and she is his, as much as they.

Her hands skim the lithe form of the Dalish elf as he presses against her, his mouth scorching her skin with his heat, branding her with his desire.


	8. Breathing Hawke & Fenris & Anders

The premise: Hawke is turned Tranquil after the events of the end game. Justice brings the Fade out with him when he manifests, as seen in the Anders recruitment quest. These are snippets of character views, based on elements of nature.

**Hawke - Water**

Once she drowns, she stops caring that she can't breath. In the smallest way, it is a relief, to know that there will be a release from the terror of knowing she is Tranquil.

In the moments she is lucid, the moments she is _her_, as much as she wants to scream at them, to beg them to put her down, she still remembers every word, every gesture made while Tranquil she floats dead and serene in a still ocean of nothing.

In the ever increasing moments when the Fade crashes into her, a wave of dream, of feeling, of vivacity, sweeping away her bland little puddle, Tranquil she has already efficiently categorized the events and moments that will need or deserve an emotional response. Fenris and Justice have both, through trial and error, learned to stand back a moment while she chokes her way through, blessedly distanced by time, but still raw.

She flies, soaring so high in her elf's arms, unashamed that the Fade spirit hovers close, watching. Aware that somewhere inside that body, Anders watches as well.

It might not be fair, but the Mage will get moments of his own. Tranquil she doesn't care who uses her body (and she made sure to tell Fenris this, to make him understand that the dead feel nothing, and she cares for the Mage, as well), and this on occasion enrages Justice despite the damage he does to the host, bringing her surging to color while her body writhes. Anders fights himself, strangling the spirit back, in order to control himself, and for fleeting moments, he has her.

It isn't fair, and it isn't good, or easy, but it is what they have. Anders brings scent and sound, breathing into her saturated lungs and driving out the water. He gives her back to herself, by giving up himself. Eventually, sporadically, how could she not love him too?

Fenris knows. There can be no secrets. That elf and mage have reached some accord, Tranquil she has seen, she knows, but there is never any time to wonder, or to care.

But the tide is coming in. She cringes, breath pressing out of her lungs. She wants to beg them to kill her, she can't take it anymore. Instead, she smiles, breathing out 'I love you', to each, to both, there are only so many seconds left. But once she drowns, she will stop caring that she can't breathe. It is almost a relief.

* * *

**Fenris – Air **

He lives for the moments that the eye of the storm finds him. The savage whorls that toss him about ease, heralded by an abominable blue glow, the rage of Justice, of Vengeance. It is the only time he feels real.

The only time the vice in his chest releases, when the light in her eyes is not simply a reflection of the sun.

He'd not imagined his future at her side to be so desolate, but it is better than nothing. Better than death. Brief shining moments in a broken lifetime of harrowing twisters.

The doll haunts him, with blank eyes and a voice devoid of care. Obedient, malleable, a burden. Willingly borne for the sake of soft eddies, errant breezes, when the storm rages on all sides, but with her, with soft touch and ghosted breath, however it may howl, it can't touch them.

For a moment.

He sells his soul to gain those moments, giving himself willingly to the revolution of the mages. When Anders falters, lost and hopeless, he takes up the reins, driving it forward with the ideals of the mage's own manifesto, found littered around Marian's house.

It is the surest way to bring Justice without driving the mage from their side. If he loses Anders, he loses Justice. If he loses Justice, he loses_ her_, and all he is left with is the doll. He would shackle the mage to her, were it necessary.

He knows it is not. He ignores that, as best he can.

Most days, he isn't sure if he is alive. But the moments in the eye of the storm…

* * *

**Anders - Fire**

The entire world is ash, burnt out and crumbling at his feet.

He'd expected metaphorical fire. He'd expected the Chantry to be consumed, as the flames of revolution licked the holy stones. He'd even expected the more than occasional actual fireballs thrown from the fingers of combatants.

He'd never imagined the grey shift of cave walls, dirt floors, running, hiding, while everything tastes of charcoal. She takes taste and color with her when she goes, coating every facet of a life he shouldn't have with a patina of soot, guilt and grief and desolation.

Passion burns, he remembers. It feels like distant memory, to find it he needs to cast back to the days spent in Kirkwall, before he set the world, his world, on fire, and incinerated everything he loved.

No one needs to point out the irony. Anders was supposed to be the martyr, a name to rally mages, now and in the future, to throw off their chains, throw down their oppressors, demand freedom at staff point.

Marian would not see him dead. It might as well have killed her. It would have been better. He can't quite wish it had.

Instead, Anders is a figurehead, nominally leading a rebellion that he, at least, has no fire for anymore. Instead, Fenris drives the movement, rubbing the ashen world in his face, tormenting and twisting him with the things he used to care about, until the elf taunts Vengeance forward, burning and blazing.

When Justice roars, Marian wakes.

That is why he suffers Fenris, whose life goal is now to goad the spirit, until the spirit explodes forth, tearing and cracking the flesh of his host, pushing Anders from his path until the mage is nothing but a passenger, relegated to a powerless spectator.

When Vengeance roars, the phoenix rises.

For Anders, there are but sparse moments, snatched from between the heartbeat when he can force Justice down, and the shutters close in her eyes, a moment or two when her fire scorches his heart, scours his soul. When her lips move against his, and she _means_ it.

Until the world crumbles into ash.

* * *

**Earth - Justice**

Earth is mutable. Even stone changes, grinding to sand under the pressure of water and wind.

He sees through the eyes of a man who feels he has given too much, and gained too little.

Justice should be static, an unchanging principle. In the uncounted Ages in the Fade, it was just that. Immutable. In this ever fluid world of the living, mortality changes things. In places where there should be no compromise, agreements are reached, and Justice smarts under the shift of_ right_ giving way to_ necessary_.

What is lost when one imposes mortality on an ideal?

Or an ideal on mortality?

He stirs at the injustices of the world, but bides his time, mostly. His host could not withstand his presence should he manifest at every slight to his namesake. The mage would shatter, broken under the weight of the Fade he brings.

No sane mortal being can live immersed in the Fade.

On occasion, Justice muses that the elf might serve better as host, driven as he is to guide the mages to freedom. Bitterly, Anders can only agree.

It isn't hard to pinpoint when it went wrong. When Justice became subject to change. The moment he slipped into living flesh, meeting the flare of Ander's rage, helpless to stop it as it soaked into him, consuming and corrupting.

When Justice fell, and Vengeance rose from his grave.

And Vengeance understands, somehow, that if he fails to grant the moments the elf seeks, the cause will be lost.

Earth is mutable. Even stone changes, grinding to sand under the pressure of water and wind. Vengeance is Justice, compromised.


	9. Enough FHawke & Merrill

She traces the white stripe on Merrill's arm, ignoring the criss-cross of old scars and new, the scabs of wounds still healing.

"Why do you do this to yourself, sweetheart?"

Even the sharpness of her reply is tempered by the sweetness of her voice. "You can't understand, Hawke." Brilliant green eyes close on despair. "I don't need you to understand."

"Maybe I could help if I did understand." Drawing the pattern of destruction on the elf's skin, focusing on the vein pulsing blue under the pale white, wishing for answers, knowing none will be forthcoming. She flicks her tongue out to taste the damage. Merrill tenses, trying to pull away and failing, the warrior woman's much greater strength keeping her still.

Frowning, she gives in, allowing Hawke to touch uncontested.

As if she has a choice.

"I love you, Merrill. I just want to understand."

She follows the lines, each a desperate call for something the elven woman didn't have in her to give, to meet the demands of the world, or of her obsession. The raised scars taste the same as the rest, until the swipe of her tongue crosses a newly made wound. She rolls the copper taste, trying to identify. Meets with nothing.

Still she follows the lines.

Lack of understanding doesn't stop her from loving, from hurting. Doesn't stop the elf from responding with whimpers and grinding hips, until the taste of need is replaced with the taste of desire, the silky heat of unbroken skin. But Hawke keeps her fingers on the scars, in the wide chasm of magic and blood, trying to ferret out answers, even as Merrill cries out, even as she lays prone, gasping for breath.

Tracing the length of her lovers arm, scars and scabs and _never good enough, never strong enough, never enough_, she thinks maybe she might understand a little.

Thanks the Maker she had not been born a mage, because she thinks she might ask for help too. The Maker might not listen to such pleas, but there are always demons who will.


	10. Look Before You Leap FHawke

A/N - I've apparently been doing smutless drabbles on the kink!meme...*sigh*

To everyone who has reviewed, favorited or followed, thank you so, so much!

* * *

_Isn't it funny, _she muses, _how things always go so wrong, in such unexpected ways? _She gazes blankly at Anders, anguish and acceptance painting shadows in his eyes, guilt smeared in ash across his cheek, settling in his hair like snow.

The angry arguments of her companions bleed past her, as much white noise as the rumble of settling rubble, the patter of gravel still falling.

Everyone chooses, and sometimes the consequences are not immediately clear. Sometimes not for years. Sometimes not for decades.

_Maybe he is right, and this is the only way. _

Maker knows she hasn't been able to sway either Elthina or Meredith with her own cunning words, Anders' manifesto delivered with diplomacy.

She sighs, mouth twisting in a wry smile. She'd known, even while she'd hoped otherwise, that the Qunari crises had never been the precipice Flemeth spoke of, prophecy ringing hard and unshakable in her words.

_This will change the world. _

She just…has to decide what she wants the world to look like when the smoke clears, and then leap.


	11. Dreams of Flying Morrigan & Amell

A/N - This one didn't actually make it onto the meme. I wrote it for a prompt, then it didn't turn into kink meme material...or even really follow the prompt. So here it is.

_'Morrigan is taken relatively young to the Tower. She hates it and finds like minded rebels in Amell and Three Marauders decide to learn how to shape shift and get out of the Tower.'_

* * *

She can see slivers of moonlight glancing off the stone wall opposite the window, slipping unsubstantial past the enchanted grating that protects the outside world.

From Mages. From her.

"I remember birds, you know." She sighs as she rolls in her bunk, curling closer to Solona. "Mother would call them down from the sky to rest on her hand, that I may study them closer."

Frowning, she feels the edge of the memory blur, tugging itself just out of her reach. "Usually it was ravens, she said that most birds stayed away from the swamps. But one day, there was a hawk, so proud and free." So clear she can see the serration of the feathers, but the memory of Mother's voice is jumbled.

Turning great grey eyes on her, the other girl tightens her arms around Morrigan. "One day, we'll find a tome, buried behind all the stuffy Creation scrolls, that will tell us how to be birds."

Morrigan's giggle breaks into a yawn, and she mumbles into her pillow. "To fly to freedom through the windows, and wreak our havoc on the world."

Solona's voice is wistful, full of the same longing that aches in Morrigan's soul. "What a lovely dream, dearest."

She can't bear the idea that it will only ever be a dream. The rare glimpses of blue sky call to her, a wounded pull on something deep inside that keeps her restless. She barely understands it, locked so long in the Tower, the ghostly feel of wind ruffling feathers.


End file.
